Stranger to stranger

Zero out of two

The time comes for me to stop this moment, even if I don't want it to end. I hope peace follows me home. I take one last look onto the moon and swim back to the rocks. I put on my boots, take my phone and leave the place just as I found it. This is my last time getting away from the bridge. I hope I never get to see it again like the first time I visited the lake and to come back better on the right side of the fence. I head back home just like any other day, not wondering what my mom is going to think of my wet clothes. But, when I enter my living room, I notice some paperwork on the table. They're probably hers, they're definitely not mine. Something about them does feel familiar in an odd way, even though I have no recognition of ever seeing those. I get a closer look, but I can't find anything that I should recognize. Just some random words on a piece of paper. Maybe, all the lack of sleep is getting to my head once and for all, making me slowly fall into a forever state of bafflement. I head upstairs without asking myself any more questions. I open my door, step inside to change into the same sweatpants I always wear. I take the letters out of my pocket, and that's when it hits me. I ran downstairs to the living room. Get on my knees to be at the same level as the table before me. Open the letters and lay them beside my mom's paperwork. Both calligraphies are practically the same. Could this really be? Is my mom the stranger I have been hoping to help me? If she is, why would she feel the need to help me? I have never asked my mom for any help nor do I show her how desperate I have been before. I would hate for her to see how weak I have been. She would be too disappointed to look at me because how could someone like me be related to someone like her. Modest, humble and strong business woman that isn't scared of anything. She had her life planned out since she was born and always knew what she wanted to do. She has her own company, while her daughter passes her nights writing on her computer instead of thinking of possibly getting a job. She doesn't pay enough attention to me to notice I was gone the night I went to the bridge for the first time. Mostly, she's gone all day and sleeps when she gets home. We have barely spent any time together since my brother died. He was the glue of our family, the only thing I had in common with my mom. What if she cares more than I think? Maybe it's because we don't talk anymore that she writes letters instead of saying it to my face. Honestly, I think it's the best way she could have helped me. There's no need to think ahead of time because I don't know for sure that she's the one writing those letters. I should maybe ask her if she is 'another stranger' but I don't want to reveal to her what I have been doing for the past few days. I hear a bathroom door open on the other side of the house. I can't ask her now, it's not the right time. I run upstairs as I hear her steps getting closer. She definitely heard me, but at least she didn't see what I was doing. My heart is beating so fast that I ask myself why I am so scared to face her. In some ways, I think I am scared she will look at me and see what I see when I look into the mirror or worse. I don't want somebody so important to me to see the worst parts of me. If I hate them, they probably will. I would be so ashamed for her to see me as I am right now. Anything but a modest, humble and strong business woman that isn't scared of anything. I could try to be more like her and face her with my hypothesis. I know that this is what she would do, and so I will. I put the two letters I have in my brother's shoe box under my bed and head to sleep.

Saturday morning and I get to see the sun rise for another day. Two days ago, I would have never thought to be where I am now, but let's not think of the past and concentrate on our time now. I still have other letters to find and a mom to talk to. I should deal with the second one first, and then find the third letter because, if my mom is the writer, she could give me clues. I head downstairs to see if she is still here or she left to go somewhere I wouldn't know. I can hear the wind coming from the back door. She left the door open to read in our backyard. I can see her slick black hair swinging with the wind and her hand gently touching the book to change the page. I catch her bright blue eyes looking at me when I pass through the door frame. I don't know if it's the lighting or my sudden attention, but I have never noticed the bags under her eyes. From what I see, she must be so tired. I suddenly feel guilty because I didn't take the time to talk to her for a really long time. I could have noticed how her work affected her if we were closer. I understand her heaviness and wish she could know how much I relate. Maybe, after asking her about the letters, I could tell her about how I have been feeling for the past year and get to know about her feelings too. She looks at me in a questionable way when I sit in the chair next to her.